


Strike Team Alpha - Origins

by aceofhearts88



Series: STRIKE Team Alpha Series [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky is only present as the Asset, F/F, F/M, Hydra, M/M, Origin Story, prequel to Walking it Off, starts off pre-MCU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-05-20 09:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6001732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofhearts88/pseuds/aceofhearts88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ON HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE]</p><p>There are 4245 miles between Munich and Washington DC, 4245 miles from start to finish, but the journey is even longer and way more complicated than a one way flight. It takes them from Munich to New York City, to Haifa and Moscow, to Toronto and Paris, to Mexico City and Riyadh, until in the end they reach Washington DC and with it their new home.</p><p>And it's more than just a journey, it's the path into a new life for three girls who had nothing but the skills in their hands and would come to have the world at their feet. It's the path of two young men who had everything and threw it all away in the name of peace and a new world order, who took down friendships and family ties in the process.</p><p>It's the story of three women forming an unbreakable friendship that will bring them through the end of the world and back again, the story of how a once strong bond can turn into an instable trust and the story of how love can save and ruin everything.</p><p>4245 miles and within them the origin story of Strike Team Alpha.</p><p>--</p><p>This won't probably make much sense without reading "Walking it Off" first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface - Team Alpha

"Snipers see people with different eyes; we judge from a distance and we make our call from a long range. I've been called a coward for it before, but why does no one ever see the truth? A sniper is one of the most dangerous people you could have as your enemy. I don't need to see your face to take the shot, I don't know who you are before I kill you – no knowledge means no regret. You can't hide from me. I will always find you; no crowd is big enough for my observant eyes. Try and run, I'll get you... My name is Red Scope and I'm the sniper of Strike Team Alpha."

 

"Ghosts don't see people, and why should they? People cannot see us, and we strike out of nowhere. I've been called a murderer and a liar so many times before, but no one knows the truth. A ghost is your worst nightmare dressed like a daydream, because I was taught to be nothing but a shadow, to feel nothing, and to leave no traces behind. I will always find you. You'll never see me coming, and you'll never feel it coming unless I want you to. I know you before you know yourself, and no place in the world is safe when you are my target. You can fight me, but I will always win. Try and run, I’ll get you... My name is Ninja Buttercup and I'm the ghost of Strike Team Alpha."

 

"Thieves see people as puppets. We play with them, we deceive them, we set them up as decorations on our path to reach our goal. I've been called many names in my life already, just because no one ever really sees the art and grace it takes to be as good as I am. The truth is, nothing is safe from me. You can bury your prizes, hide your secrets and reinvent yourself, but I will always find you, and I will still take what I need. I will take apart your life and your soul to get what I was sent for. Try and run, I'll get you... My name is Queen of Roses and I'm the thief of Strike Team Alpha."


	2. Prologue - Captain Roger's Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even when you want to tell the beginning, you sometimes have to start at the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicating this whole story to Julie, Tess and Sammy. The real life queens behind their story namesakes.

STA Origin Prologue

Tess looked up when the sound of boots in the corridor alerted her to the return of the Strike Teams. She straightened from her seat on the bench at the side of the hangar and pulled her hands out of her messed up hair – it was truly a pity, that 40s style had been dashing, incorrect or not – and when she looked up, she found Julie walking towards her with Jack at her side.

They slumped down on either side of her. Both had gotten rid of their weapons in the car not too long ago, but they were still wearing the Strike uniforms and their Kevlar armor.  
“Got him?” Tess asked quietly. Julie nodded, reaching over to intertwine their fingers. On her other side, Jack leaned back against the wall, looking a bit dazed.  
Julie intervened first. “It wasn't your fault. Everyone kept telling Fury that it was a bad idea. Even Coulson called him stupid,” her best friend said, trying to soothe the guilt still raging inside of the thief.

“But you got him back?” She needed to know; she had completely frozen. It had been so stupid of them to make such an easy mistake. Everything had messed up because her instincts had all but failed.  
“He stopped on Times Square – he got a bit of a culture shock, I think. Fury talked him down and brought him to the safe house,” Julie explained, calmly as always, but smiled when Tess looked her way. “You're not going to get a dressing down. You did your best.”  
“And looked smoking hot while doing so,” Sarah’s voice echoed from the doorway.

Snapping her head up, Tess rolled her eyes at the two approaching Strike officers, sticking her tongue out at the redheaded woman who had quipped the compliment. The woman completely ignored her and continued talking, “You did your best; Julie's right. This is on Fury.” Sighing deeply, Tess finally let the tension drain from her shoulders and relaxed upon her team leader's words.  
“But damn, did you see him running?” The man with short dark hair pulled over a metal box for him and Sarah to sit on. “I couldn't even get the car fast enough around the corner.”

“Hey, what am I supposed to say, I was trying to keep a target on him,” Sarah complained, sliding the rifle from her back before sitting down. “But Brock is right, he was fast.”  
They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, all of them getting their breaths back and coming to terms with what they had just witnessed. It wasn't until Jack exhaled loudly and pushed a hand over his face that they all blinked and snapped out of their daze.

“So, Captain America, huh?” Jack spoke the words quietly, feeling the taste of them on his tongue. The girls hummed in agreement while Brock started grinning.  
“Last one finding Coulson is on paperwork duty.”

They scrambled off like frightened ducks, stumbling over each other and shoving at each other for the first two meters before Sarah and Brock jumped up into the ventilation system, weapons rattling against the metal and making their ears hurt. Tess threw her heels over her left shoulder and nearly clonked a junior agent from Brock's team in the head while she squabbled with Julie in the doorway of the staircase. The door fell shut behind them just as Jack slammed his hand upon the button for the sixth floor in the elevator.

\--

Coulson didn't yelp when Sarah jumped out of the ventilation shaft in his office at the same time that Brock slammed open the door. Of course he didn't – he was far too used to it by then. He didn't even blink or look up from filing his paperwork. There was a girlish shriek though, followed by flying papers of a classified file. Neither Sarah nor Brock had seen it of course. The papers belonged to a then glowering Clint Barton, perched in a cross legged seat on a corner of Coulson's desk.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Clint exclaimed as he got to his feet and slapped the pages Sarah had just picked up right out of her hands again, only to groan and sink to his knees to collect them himself. He didn't get an answer directly, though, because in that second Julie and Tess rushed into the room and crashed right into Brock, sending him – and them – flying to the ground. They then pushed apart as though they had been burned, just as Jack fell against the door and groaned.

“What did Sarah and Brock do? And how many bodies do I have to make disappear?” Coulson finally showed signs of having noticed them, and looked up just in time for Sarah and Brock to glower at him.  
“We didn't do anything,” they answered in perfect sync before glaring at each other for it. Then, a small squabble started up between all newly arrived agents until Coulson stopped it with a loud whistle and a sigh of utter frustration.

“To what do I owe this interruption then?” Everyone shrunk back upon Coulson's stern gaze in their own way: Sarah and Brock winced, Julie and Tess took a step closer to vanish behind their leader's back, and Jack tried to make himself smaller than his 6'2 frame allowed. Clint, still kneeling on the ground to collect his papers, threw a dark look toward the redhead.  
“Captain America!” All Strike agents chorused together, with the exception of Clint, who jumped to his feet just as Coulson dropped the pen he had been holding.

“He is awake?” the senior agent asked before he was met with five thick grinning faces. “Oh my...”  
“Captain Rogers woke up around an hour ago...” Tess started up quietly, knowing that Coulson would want the whole story right away. “Unfortunately, he did remember the baseball game on the radio and got upset...like, actually really upset.” Coulson facepalmed, but Tess gave a small smile – they had all listened to Coulson mutter about Fury's stupid ideas in the last days.

“He threw John and Philips through the wall and then ran like the devil himself was out for his blood,” Brock took over.   
Coulson groaned while Clint openly gaped and complained, “And I get to miss this because of classified shit in New Mexico. I can't believe it.”   
Coulson waved him off quickly, sitting up straighter again. “So Captain Rogers got away? Are you here because you lost him and need me to keep Fury from killing you until you found him?”

Both Strike team officers snorted while their teammates winced. “He stopped on Times Square; probably sensory overload. We surrounded him, and the director talked him down and took him back to the safe house. Sitwell took some agents to take care of the crowds,” Sarah explained before Coulson jumped to his feet.  
“Well then shush, all of you!” he declared, leveling a look at Clint. “You don't let yourself be seen until you know these blueprints by heart. Rumlow and Viktora, Secretary Pierce asked to see you both when your duty was done. St.Oaks, get yourself cleaned up and then meet me down in the hangar; I don't want the Captain freaking out when he sees you next – let Fury explain this one. Seaway, I do believe Agent Romanoff would be more than content to hear a familiar voice at check in that is not mine... And Rollins, I believe last one got paperwork as always?”

In the doorway, Jack grumbled, but still turned to leave for his duty.

\--

It was not uncommon for them to develop mission strategies together, despite being on different teams nowadays. The same clearance level meant that there were hardly any secrets between them when it came to their jobs and their very different experiences usually only helped in bringing things along. Most of the time, it ended up in loud arguments and bruises – Sarah hoped dearly it wouldn't go so far today.

Brock and she had come from the video call with Secretary Pierce only half an hour ago, both with new missions for their teams and the immediate order to prepare a strategy to be presented in two days. Brock had the easy way out: Los Angeles was known territory, familiar and not too far away. Sarah, meanwhile, had to deal with Spain. So, they had grabbed the maps from the archives and had locked themselves into one of the smaller meeting rooms, with clear orders to not be disturbed unless it was an emergency.

However, there was only so much that could be planned until it got boring and dull, and Sarah couldn't help but notice how Brock was starting to get agitated, clearly fighting against something that could pull her out of her concentration. He didn't seem to be out for a fight today, which was weird and odd and so not like him.

“You can talk, you know?” she prodded at him when it was his silence for a change that drove her crazy. He snapped his head up to look at her before leaning back against the wall.  
“It felt good to work together as a team, today... spontaneous and unexpected as it was. And it didn't prove to be a problem to have two people leading.” His point became clear right away and Sarah sighed, dropped the pencil in her hands and dragged a hand through her hair, messing it up even further.

“I'm sorry, you know?” she began after a small pause, although without looking up from the maps under her fingertips. She could still feel Brock tense behind her.  
“For what?” he pushed, and the familiar controlling tone of his voice, it made it easier to talk.  
“For the things that went wrong between us. I said a lot of things that hurt you, in frustration and petty anger. I let my buttons be pushed and I shoved back twice as hard.” She was raw with her honesty, knowing that with him, she had never had a reason to hold back. He had always taken it, let himself be pushed, but used it on her in return.

“We both made mistakes, both fucked up.” He reminded her of all the occasions where it had come to blows between them, the last didn't even date back a week yet.  
“Yeah...but still, I should have understood, I shouldn't have let you become the villain in all of this. I fucked you over just as bad as you shoved me to the sidelines. And for that, I am sorry.” Sarah knew her voice had gone a little thin in the end and it was difficult to look up and hold Brock's steady eyes.

He was still leaning against the wall to her left, arms crossed over his chest, stubborn hard ass rock in the storm, and she wanted nothing more than to see a sign of emotion on his face for once again.  
“We've been fighting since Seaway came into your life; don't pretend there isn't a cause for all of this.”  
Sarah had to take a deep breath to not jump at the fuse he was suddenly dangling into her face, “We've been fighting long before Julie joined Shield, Brock. The only difference was that back then, before Julie and I starting circling each other, we fucked it out when it got too much.” Something flashed over his face then, but it was over too quickly for her to really pin it down. He then turned his face away and Sarah bit down the growl – stupid jerk.

Abandoning the maps, she crossed her own arms over her chest and stepped over to stand right in front of him. “I thought we could be friends, I really did, but I couldn't let it happen under the condition that I wouldn't be able to marry the woman I love or fulfill my dream of getting my own team. You held me back, Brock, it wouldn't have worked. I am sorry for putting all the blame on you, but I am not sorry for leaving your team. You know it was time for me to go.” Her hands twitched against her arms and she fought against the urge to slap him, just as always.

“So it's too late?” Finally, there was an emotion on his face, finally something else than the freaking cold mask. She could have huffed in frustration over the hurt, but then again, she had somehow earned it as well. “Too late to start over and be friends?” Brock repeated his question with a little more details. Sarah considered his words, the tone of his voice, and most all, the look in his eyes and only when she was convinced that he was honest did she sigh and turn away again and walked back to the maps.

“No, it's not, at least not completely too late,” she admitted and leaned back over the table again, despite feeling Brock's eyes on the back of her head. It was a change, to be honest; he had never given up a chance of ogling her assets until now. “When we're both back from the job, back together here on the helicarrier or in DC, whenever it might be, then we need to talk.” There was the sound of him moving and pushing himself off from the walls, stepping around the table until he could lean against it across from her, dark eyes ducking down to catch hers.

“And get out with the truth. Once and for all, come clean.” He effortlessly continued what she had wanted to say and Sarah nodded, daring a look over to him.  
“I'm ready to give you another chance, Brock, but fuck up one more time, and I'm done with you. And, if you dare and touch my girls, I will pull the trigger myself.” Silence lasted between them for a moment and then they both nodded at each other and went back to staring down at the city map of Rota. “Great, good talk. And I still have no idea if this suicide or not.” 

Brock then chuckled upon her frustrated huff that got pushed past gritted teeth. “Which opinion do you want? Brock's or Commander Rumlow's?”  
She stuck her tongue out at him and then laughed, shaking her head and swept a hand through the air over the map.  
“The one that brings my girls back in one piece,” she answered and sent him a amused look.

“Well then, let me have? I have a condition though,” he said and was already tugging the map around despite the loud groan that fell from her lips and the impossible-to-oversee eyeroll. Nonetheless, Sarah waved her hand again to keep him talking, gritting her teeth again in preparation for what was to come.

“Talk to Jack.”

His response surprised her so much that she raised both eyebrows and stared at him. “Jack?!” she asked when she could wrap her tongue around the word. Meanwhile, Brock kept his eyes focused on the maps and strategy plans on the table, “What did Jack do?”, spoken from Sarah in that tone that Clint usually reserved for the very rare moments someone complained about Tess to him, it just never really happened. Compared to Jack Rollins, even Tess was a troublemaker – no one ever filed a complaint against the man because he was a saint. People clapped his back repeatedly and drowned him in compliments whenever he walked into a room, simply for having lasted as long as he did on Rumlow's team. The guy was Brock's best friend, probably his only true friend by now. They were thick as thieves. 

As much as she could remember, Jack was the only one who could read Brock at all times, it was downright creepy, and if she hadn't been at that point at one time herself, she would have already backed the hell off. No one ever had something bad to say about Strike Agent Jack Rollins. Even Fury and Pierce loved the boy to pieces, and they were both fucking nitpicky with people.

She could count more women at Shield who had asked her for Jack's number or private quarter numbers than people who knew her first name – pity for them that they all had the wrong assets for his tastes.   
“Wait a second, what the hell did you do to Jack?”, Sarah changed her question slightly, still confused over why Brock would approach her to talk to his best friend, no one was more private than them, they always dealt with everything themselves. So why would be suddenly need her to play peacebreaker, or messenger? She certainly didn't think that Jack had done anything, he wasn't the one always running around with his tiny little foot in his mouth. Brock was a fair but strict leader, he had never made a difference between male and female agents and was equally hard on everyone. He trusted no one further than his own shadow, with the exception of Jack – and Sarah, in the past.

“It's not really the question of what I did… more of what I didn't do,” Brock answered.   
“Oh God,” she breathed out, and then whirled around to reach for the closest accessible item: a pencil sharpener. She threw it at Brock's head in her twist back to face him, but he evaded it without looking, and the poor object shattered against the wall.

“Brock!” Sarah exclaimed loudly as he sighed before dropping his arms down upon his elbows on the table and dragging a hand over his face. “What did you do?”  
“If you tell anyone...” he started, but stopped when he caught her venomous look.   
“I'm not the one who couldn't keep his mouth shut all these years ago, you idiot. Out with it! Whatever it is, it can't be that bad; Jack is still glued to your back like a loyal golden retriever.” Barely able to keep herself back from smirking down at him with girlish glee, Sarah bit her lip and blinked at him patiently while he collected his thoughts, having the upper hand on him for once felt way too good, seeing him struggle for words was better than the first coffee in the morning.

It took a moment, but then he groaned and let his forehead fall down to the table top. “You remember that false fire alarm some weeks back?”   
She nodded, pulling a chair over to sit down again. She made a mental note to ask Coulson to delete the security feed of this moment – no one needed to know about this; it was something between them. Brock knew she told the girls everything, and she knew he would tell Jack similar stories, and that was okay… but no one else had a right to see this. It would probably fuck their reputation to all kinds of hell, too, and they needed those intact. Junior recruits stopped pissing their pants on sight when they saw you had emotions somewhere behind that stone cold poker face.

“Well, to put it shortly, Jack had to pull it so Sitwell wouldn't catch him coming down my throat.”  
Yeah, that earned him a wide eyed gape, because fucking hell, she hadn't seen that coming. Pun intended.  
“Oh, don't look at me like that. You're in no place to judge – Sitwell actually ran into us twice.”  
“Yeah, because you weren't watching the hallway, Brock...But seriously, I don't see the problem, exactly. Jack's preferences are not a secret on your team, and your reputation is not really of a chaste monk’s, Brock.” The thought unraveled in her head while she was talking, and she ended with a clipped, “Oh.”

Brock hummed and picked up a pen to scribble something under her notes, Sarah was too busy facepalming to notice it.  
“So assuming I am going to go to him, what would I tell...that he shouldn't get his hopes up? Let him down easy and gentle for you? Which would, by the way, feel actually fucking weird for both of us considering that Jack knows about us, Brock. How do I continuously get myself into these situations?”

He ignored the last rhetoric babble of hers and waited until she was looking at him again. “Assuming you would go to him, you could tell him that I'm a fuck up when it comes to emotions…”  
“He was the one who told me that,” she interrupted him, although a gleeful smirk still showed epically how confused she was.

“… and that I don't want things to change just yet,” Brock continued without even glaring at her.  
“Yet?” Sarah prompted with her mouth dropping open.  
“That I need some time to figure some things out,” he ended, without even reacting to her shell shocked face. Was he truly implying that...

“Figure...What the fuck....Are you for real?” Her shocked outbreak was met with a familiar cold, hard stare that had most other people piss their pants and flee with flailing hands, but that showed her just how hit he was by this really, they had always had the weirdest tricks to read each other like a book.  
“Jack is a good guy,” he bit back in defense. He was only proving her impression of his emotional state and she took a deep breath to collect herself, wondering if this was all some strange dream, going from trying to rip his throat out to him confessing a broom closet quickie with his best friend in under five days, she wanted a vacation.

“Jack is the best, we both know that, Brock. He deserves more than just a random hook up… and I'm so not ready for this shovel talk.” It was his turn to roll eyes, while she made grabby hands to get her strategy notes back. He pushed them over, the question obvious in his eyes. “But I will go and talk to him. Tomorrow. I need a night to swallow this...” 

His lips turned up into a half smirk, and she hit him before he could even open his mouth. “Don't say one word about that! Better tell me about what you scribbled on my plans and we're good to go.” He nodded at her, the only open sign of a thank you she would get from him, and then they leaned over the map and turned away from whatever they were at the moment to become Strike Team officers once more.

\--

Later that day, Sarah shut the door of the quarters she shared with Julie on the second deck. She dropped all her mission plans on the sideboard right next to the door, and then stopped for a moment and just stared at the mint colored wall for a few seconds.  
“Rough afternoon?” Julie's voice reached her ears and Sarah blinked before looking to her right, smiling the moment she caught sight of her wife leaning against the doorway that led to the bedroom. Julie was already wearing sweatpants and one of Sarah’s old shirts.

“Oh, you have no idea. Where is Tess? Didn't you two want to catch up on that show?” Sarah asked before she finally kicked off her boots and moved past Julie to get rid of the uniform. Julie followed, dropping down upon the bed, watching lazily how she undressed.  
“She texted an hour ago – seems Coulson chickened out at the last second and the apologizing for the stupid set up fell to her personally. Captain Rogers forgave on sight; he seemed more embarrassed than she was.”

Sarah gagged playfully and threw the uniform to the laundry basket before reaching for her own sweatpants and Shield shirt.  
“She apparently was gobsmacked enough to offer to get him anything he might want, under the condition that she was allowed. She is currently browsing through art supply shops.”  
Sarah froze once more while pulling back the blankets on her side of the bed. Julie raised a questioning eyebrow as Sarah said, “Wow, just wow, how is this my life.”

“Did something happen that I should know about?” Julie prodded a little as they both settled on the bed. The brunette woman reached for the TV remote, set in the belief that Sarah would want to unwind with a movie.  
“You were there for half of it, babe,” the redhead pointed out and flopped back into her pillows, the motion rocking the headboard so much that the Bucky Bear Clint had made her years ago toppled over and then fell on her face. Julie snorted a laugh and clicked through their assembled movie collection. Sarah picked up the stuffed animal and glared, “Traitor... But seriously…” she continued as she stretched to put the bear back in the place he belonged to when they weren't stationed in DC for longer.

“Captain America!” Julie plucked the thought right out of her head. “Steve Rogers! Believe me, I'm as stumped as you are. He was standing there, in the flesh, wide awake and real in the middle of New York City. That can’t be all – what's the other thing?”  
Sarah rubbed a hand down her face before answering. “Brock, but don't worry.” She was quick to add when Julie growled low in her throat. “It's nothing bad… I think. And nothing happened...yet...just let me deal with it, please.” Big round green eyes turned to look at her and Julie blew her a kiss.

“Fine. Now, what are we going to watch? You want that old Howling Commandos' movie?” When she glanced to the side, Sarah was grimacing at the title on the screen and shook her head. “Too early?” Julie reached up to push a strand of hair back behind Sarah's ear.  
“Ten hours after Captain America is granted a second chance at life? What do you think, Julie? Of course I'm not exactly in the mood to listen to people talk about Bucky Barnes' death for half an hour straight. Pick one of those rom-coms Tess and you downloaded a week ago, and then let us forget who we are for like eight hours.”

“Eight...is something scheduled for tomorrow morning? I thought we had the day off before the debriefing for Rota starts?” Cocking her head to the side while she chose between two movies, Julie nudged a knee against Sarah's thigh, where her wife had simply buried herself under the blanket.

“You have it off. I promised Brock to go running with him, and then boxing some rounds in the gym, and then I need to lock myself into a cabin at the shooting range for an hour straight before I even think about finding Jack… And then it's straight back to the shooting range until my brain is bleached free of that conversation, again.” Her grumbling ended when Julie pulled the blanket from her face and stared down at her with one eyebrow raised. Over her shoulder, Sarah could spot the opening credits for the chosen movie. “Don't ask. I'll tell you everything tomorrow when Tess is here, too, because I am not explaining this twice.”

It obviously only made Julie more curious, but she still let it rest, pulling the blanket down so she could cuddle up to Sarah to start watching the movie. “So, basically, I need to find something to entertain myself with?”  
Sarah hummed in agreement and pushed an arm under her shoulders to pull her closer, when Julie continued,“Oh, and I'll be shuffling after Clint to get more information out of him on that New Mexico thing.”

“Good girl.”

\--

Sarah left with a short kiss goodbye when the sun had barely risen above the horizon. Julie didn't even wake long enough to return the kiss – she was deeply asleep again by the time Sarah had closed the bedroom door behind herself.  
By the time Julie had woken, eaten breakfast with Coulson, and had gotten dressed in workout clothes, Sarah and Rumlow had already been to Stark Tower and back. Julie got a good glimpse of them when she stepped into the smaller gym the helicarrier offered the Strike agents.

“What is Rumlow working off? And why with her?” were the words Tess greeted her with as Julie came to stand next to where her best friend was sitting on one of the benches to the side. Tess was holding a cupcake and was, shockingly enough, wearing the same clothes she had worn the day before upon venturing out with Coulson to get back to Captain Rogers. Tess immediately jumped to her own defense when she caught sight of Julie's look.

“He was bored, confused, and lonely. Turns out he feels less threatened by an unfamiliar woman than with a man. Coulson ordered me to keep him company! I went out to get art supplies, and we spent our time drawing. Because… he likes that.” Tess sent her a look that dared her to say something about it and Julie chose to focus back on the two sparring officers again.

“She promised to explain later. Where is Mister Protective Overlord?” Tess nudged her chin up as an aswer and Julie followed the gesture with her eyes. She found Clint Barton perched upon a beam in a dark corner close to where Rumlow threw another punch at a quickly ducking Sarah.  
“So, anything up today?” Tess asked, holding out the cupcake for Julie to take a bite.

“Why? You wanna go back to drawing with Captain America?” She swallowed and then questioned with a quick wink. She smirked when Tess blushed scarlet.  
“Oh my God, don't say it like that!” she hissed quietly and kicked Julie's foot, rubbing a hand down her face to get rid of the color.  
“To answer your question, no, nothing is up. Sarah apparently got herself drawn into some strange and weird stuff between Rumlow and Jack that I am still not convinced I even want to know about. We have the day off though, and when I look at them now, I think I would prefer to be as far away from here as possible.”

Tess agreed before Julie snapped, “Oh, you know what, to hell with working out. Let's go and hit Fifth Avenue or something. Maybe I'll even let you go back to drawing with Captain America.”  
Julie's laugh echoed from the walls when Tess groaned and then jumped up to shove her from the room to get dressed for a day out.

\--

Julie did end up accompanying Tess back to the safe house, but chose to walk to the communal kitchen instead of joining her friend in finding Captain Rogers. She was sure he already had enough people presenting themselves. She still wondered how he was adjusting, and if it was even possible after seventy years on ice, or if the shock was just too much to handle.

She knew some things, mostly because Coulson and her own wife knew everything there was to know about Captain America and the Howling Commandos, and it made her curious about how he would react to some things in this new world. Sitting down with her current favorite book on a bench in the corner of the kitchen, she stirred her coffee while flipping to the page she had fallen asleep on last night. Sarah had, as always, pried the book from her gripping hands when she had already been two paths down to dreamland, and had even gotten the right page for the marker this time.

“And this is the kitchen… it's unfortunately quite modern, but if there is something that seems too strange, someone should always be close enough to explain.” Tess’s voice broke through her concentration, but she didn’t react. She was too used to hearing her friend’s voice around their quarters. She did notice, however, that Tess’s tone of voice meant that she was relaxed – maybe a little bit embarrassed, but definitely at ease.

Someone answered and the conversation continued as Tess and the newcomer moved around the kitchen, but Julie was too absorbed in the story. She only looked up when someone stepped between her and the light of the lamp, and only then did her brain freeze. Tess had to clear her throat twice to gain her attention. “Julie!” she whispered under her breath, and Julie couldn't help but blush scarlet at the thought that her official name had not registered in her brain.

“Captain Rogers, may I introduce my friend and teammate, Agent Julie Seaway.” Tess grinned as she continued the introductions flawlessly, “Julie, I do think you've heard about Captain Rogers.”  
Julie congratulated herself on getting it together enough to stick her hand out and holy shit, mother of God – that was quite a grip.

The Captain flushed when she winced slightly and readjusted his hold on her hand while he politely shook it. He was huge, but she was not gaping: her mouth was closed and her eyes were not wide. Thank you to all heavens, dear Academy training. Holy crap.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, ma'am.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Captain Rogers.”

“Agent St.Oaks told me about Strike Team Alpha, and I must say I am dearly impressed.”

Julie gestured for them to sit down and put her book to the side, throwing a quick look toward Tess, who merely smirked back at her. Gloating much? Sarah would love her for it, and Clint and Rumlow would have her on a stick soon.  
“Is there anything you'd like to know more about? My wife....our team leader,” she corrected herself quickly. “She is currently planning our next mission, so we have nothing to do.”

\--

“Brock blew Jack in the supply closet on level four, and fucked up big time when it turned out that Jack's loyalty and friendship had a little more depth than we all believed. Wait for it – it also turns out that Brock is only concerned about going too fast into whatever this could turn out to be, and needed me to tell Jack to be patient and not leave him standing in the dirt just yet.” This all left Sarah's mouth in a big rush of words when the girls met up in a bar in downtown Manhattan that evening.

Julie and Tess both gaped at her for a moment, drinks halted halfway to their mouths and Sarah hummed, trying to grin, but turning it into a grimace when it strained the dashing bruise on her left jaw.  
“So...” Julie started carefully, “does this mean he is finally over you?”  
“Took him only a decade; we should throw him a party!” Sarah cheered with fake joy, and then pushed her chair back from their table. “I need another drink first.”

“Well then...” Tess chuckled as they watched Sarah make her way to the bar. “Here is to a hopefully good second half of this year.” Julie raised her glass as well.  
“To a less Rumlow infested second half of this year.” They clinked their glasses against each other and then groaned when Sarah returned with three shot glasses. One of them was filled way higher with the clear liquid than the others.

“Bear with me, please, for this day.” Sarah begged and accepting her whining voice, Tess and Julie both took the glasses with grimaces as their leader sat back down.  
“To Rumlow or to Jack's insanity for falling for the resident jerkface?” Julie wanted to know while Tess sniffed the vodka as if it was gasoline. Sarah raised her glass with a smile – fucking Russian genes.

“To Captain Rogers' return.” Even Tess and Julie couldn't help but smile and swallow down the disgusting vodka for that toast.

\--

This is not where our story begins of course, not at all. In a way even, the day of Captain America's return was more or less the beginning of the end for us, we wouldn't know it for another eighteen months. But let's not go there right now. If you want to know our story, we have to start at the beginning.

So let's scroll back some years, because our story starts on a bitter cold November day in the family mansion of Ivan Aljenka, just off the Marienplatz in Munich. Snow had piled up already in the Bavarian capital on this Tuesday in the year 2000, and the guests of Aljenka's dinner party arrived in thick coats and furs.

Among them were the undercover agents Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff, and with them, our story begins… the story of Strike Team Alpha.

tbc


	3. My name is Sarah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a locked room in Munich, Agent Barton finds a girl and begins a story

When the trigger was pulled and the bullet had done its job, the agents acted fast and hand in hand as always. Clint wiped pillow the gun and clipped it back to the holster under his shirt before buttoning it, while Natasha dumped the now ruined into the fireplace. She swung by Clint on her way back to their target, red dress sliding over the ground gracefully. Her fingers straightened his tie once more while he set her hair back in impeccable order after some strands had come loose in the struggle.

They didn't exchange a single word while they rushed around the office, getting rid of any evidence that could have led back to them or Shield. At last, Clint pulled the body behind the desk to hide him from sight while Natasha uploaded the virus onto the laptop on the desk. When they were done, Natasha opened a window before lowering herself in position on the floor by the corpse, on her knees, schooling her face into a dramatic, traumatized expression.

Clint raised an eyebrow at her and Natasha sniffed, prompting him to roll his eyes before slipping out of the room through the back door. Five seconds after the latch had clicked behind him, Clint vanished around the corner into the crowded corridor, mingling with the dinner guests just as Natasha started screaming.

Everything was going as planned and that should have been their first clue.

\--

Strike Team Delta had been sent to Munich to corner Ivan Aljenka in his home and to take him out as quietly as possible, to hide all traces and then to disappear again. Shield had been after Aljenka for a long time due to drugs, human trafficking, guns and bombs. The man had sold everything he could get his hands on; the more illegal the better. He was a bastard, a kind of person that Hawkeye and Black Widow delighted in taking out.

An easy job it had been. They had slipped in as a couple among many others for the dinner party, Natasha had lured Aljenka into his office where Clint shot him.

Easy.

Simple.

It all had gone smoothly and without a hitch.

They had expected chaos the moment Aljenka's security team found their employer’s body, but that got overshadowed by an unexpected raid on the house. Clint, who had been on his way down the great staircase to get back into the main hall, got a first place seat to watch the masked individuals crash through the ceiling windows, sliding down ropes with guns drawn and voices yelling for people to get down.

Everything turned into panicked chaos.

The first to go down was the dinner party’s guest of honour: Ivan Aljenka's oldest son, Michail, freshly back from Mother Russia with his bought bride and the prospect of becoming his father's right hand man.

Clint shoved his way up the stairs again, aiming for the fire escape to get out, but crashed right into Aljenka's second oldest son, Aljoscha, whose elbow got pushed against the gun at Clint's waist. Cold blue eyes widened as they pushed apart, and Clint quickly saw the blood on Aljoscha's hands – he must have found his father’s corpse, then. Loud curses in Russian were spit at Clint as Aljoscha hollered to get his security team's attention, his cries mostly drowned out by the crowd’s screams.

"Real sorry about this, buddy." Clint sighed, drew the knife from his hip and stabbed it into the other man's knee before taking flight and disappearing into the shadows of a deserted private corridor. Immediately, the noises of the screaming and crying crowd and the still ongoing orders to stand down vanished into blissful background noises, and Clint reached up a hand to the comm link in his ear.

"Tasha, are you out?" he asked his partner, the woman who was his best friend in the entire world, and since a year ago, something more as well.

"One second." He heard the sound of her Widow's bracelet being jammed into someone's body. "Now, I'm out. South corner of the rooftop. Where are you and what kind of hell did you cause?" 

Clint huffed, pressing himself close to the wall at the end of the corridor as he calculated the best route to get to the roof. "Still in the house, and it wasn't me. Someone else is after Aljenka apparently; it looked government-controlled. We need to get out. Contact Coulson." 

He then rushed down the left side of the new corridor until he reached a dead end, but their intel pointed towards this door, leading to a storage room with a fire escape at the other end. Pulling out his gun, Clint shot two rounds into the heavy lock and then slammed the door open—

— only to freeze and stumble mid step as he caught sight of deeply terrified green eyes in a young girl's pale face... but the most shocking of all was the skin of her right wrist, coloured an angry red under the massive cuff that locked her to the bedframe. The chain that linked her wrist to the frame was long, and if he had to make a quick guess, it was certainly just long enough to reach the small bathroom across the room from her. A book was open in her lap, there were earbuds in her ears, and she stared at Clint as if he was death himself.

Clint felt sick and had to catch himself against a chair to not keel over. She didn't look a day older than 13 or 14, and she was locked inside a dimly lit room in Aljenka's house. Even the windows were blocked with iron bars. His head was getting dizzy with one horrible scenario after the other, and he was too late to notice the furious security guard who had snuck up on him. A punch to the back had Clint falling onto his knees, gun flying from his hand.

In the split second it took for him to jump around again, the big guy had called for back-up and Clint found himself faced with three more men. 

Well, he had seen worse. 

He jumped into action as Natasha demanded to know what the hell was going on just as three shots rang out. Clint ducked down instinctively and slashed the throat of the guy he had taken down with him. When he scrambled back to his feet, fearing the worst and already preparing himself to see the dead body of the young girl, he was left stunned when he instead saw her kneeling on the bed in her worn sweatpants and shirt, his gun held in her trembling hands.

The guards were dead.

Three bullets to three heads...

Green eyes looked at him behind messy red hair, and they no longer saw death.

\--

"Barton!" Natasha growled in his ear when Clint still hadn't answered her. 

He moved quickly, pushing and kicking the guards’ dead bodies out of the room and slamming the door shut again. He set the chair against it for good measure before pocketing the dropped guns and knives. The time for blending in was over.

"I'm fine. Evac point, ten minutes – and tell Coulson to be fucking ready." He looked up then, at the frightened and bruised girl with her hands shaking around the gun she was still pointing at the door. She was looking at him, and it was the look in those green eyes that let him speak without thinking about his words for even a second. "Tell him we'll come with an addition."

Clint tried to scramble together the phrases he knew in German that he could use in this situation, but after uttering a few horrible mess of syllables, green eyes flickered up to meet his again and he got to hear her voice for the first time. 

"English,” she said quietly. She was terrified, and her voice was hollow, as though she hadn't used her voice in a long while. "I speak English."

"Well, that makes everything easier. My name is Clint, and I'm going to get you out of here." 

Whipping out a knife, he cursed under his breath when she flinched. 

"It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you," he soothed her, mindful to move carefully as he reached for the cuff around her right wrist.

He struggled not to think of Natasha's stories, of Natasha's struggles to fall asleep without the damn cuff in the beginning, because he had said no – the thought made him sick... and here he was, rescuing another child from the chains locking her to a nightmare.

It took a little patience, since the lock was rusty and his nerves were strung tight. The girl was visibly trembling in shock and fear, but she still held the gun steadily at the door. When the cuff broke free from her wrist, Clint muffled another curse when he saw the real amount of deep red scraping wounds on her wrist and hand. The bruises went up both her arms and vanished under the worn out sleeves of her shirt.

"I'm going to get you out of here," he promised her again, taking three long steps over to the closet while the girl cradled her wrist against her chest and stared down at her freed hand as if it was a miracle. He couldn't think of what had happened here, couldn't think of what could have been done to her – he needed to focus on getting them out of this damned danger zone. The closet didn't hold many clothes, and especially not what he was looking for: a jacket with a hood to cover that mess of striking red hair.

"Oh, this night is just getting better and better." Turning his face into a less frustrated grimace, he turned back to her, noticed how her eyes once again looked at him, completely lost and overwhelmed. Clint sighed and, in a spontaneous rush of adrenaline, he shrugged off his suit jacket and grabbed what looked like a shawl from a cupboard.

"Can you stand up?" 

She nodded and damn, he should have asked for her name. That was hostage-freeing rule number one: ask for their names, give them an identity to show that you care. Now it was too late for chit chat though; they needed to get out of there before more people came up to check on them.

Walking back to the trembling girl, he took the gun momentarily from her and wrapped her into his jacket. It swallowed her frame like a sack, and while she still fiddled with the sleeves, probably unfamiliar with the fabric on her skin, he quickly wrapped the shawl around her head like he had often done for Natasha in missions in the Middle East.

"Okay." Pressing the gun back into her hand, he gently pulled up her chin until she was looking at him again. "Pretty sure no one ever showed you how to shoot – call it a gut instinct – but you took these guys out like a pro, so you keep this. There are 12 bullets left. Only shoot when there is no other way!" She nodded as though she was in a trance, barely registering his words.

"One more thing, shoes." He turned around, eyes darting around the shoes while his ears again focused on the staircase and the corridor, listening for more guards.

"I have only slipper boots." He raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar wording, so the girl raised one foot slightly, showing him the weird-looking boots that would probably be warm enough for the cold outside, but super soaked within moments in the snow.

But as a shot sounded from outside the room – probably on the staircase – and they were running out of choices, the slipper boots would have to do, so he gently pushed her over to the window. He sent one round of bullets from the picked-up gun into the locks surrounding the glass, and thought longingly of his bow and arrows. Prying the window open, he tried not to wince at the ice cold blast of wind that tore through his dress shirt as he turned back to the girl.

She hesitated, clearly now, and Clint would have freaked if it hadn't been the first hostage he had freed from a long captivity. His brain still resolutely refused to come up with reasons on why Ivan Aljenka or his sons had a minor locked up in their house like a personal slave.

"I'll keep you safe. I'll bring you someplace safe. No one will hurt you, I promise." He didn't know what was different this time, why it felt like bringing her someplace safe wouldn't be enough. He didn't know why his heart suddenly beat slower when she pushed herself forward and climbed out of the window onto the fire escape, waiting until he had followed her and closed the window as best as he could from outside.

Then another shot rang out, and Clint grabbed her left hand and said, "Don't let go." She nodded, and then he took off down the stairs, keeping her close and his eyes wide open.

\--

They made it down without being spotted, and he rushed them off into the next back alley and through several small paths in the old part of the city until he was sure that they weren't being followed. Only then did he allow himself to stop for a small moment, to look back at the heavily panting girl at his side who had probably never needed to run so much in her life. Her green eyes were wide and she was now visibly shaking from the cold.

His jacket, her sweatpants, and her already-soaked slippers – as expected – were not doing much in keeping the cold from her.

"It's gonna be okay, you hear me? You're out. You're..." His words were lost under the sound of an explosion. "Well, shit." He cursed openly now and grabbed her hand again, as the figures of two men clad in black came running into the alley he had hidden into.

Both men started shouting in Russian right away and the girl winced so heavily that he didn't even need to listen more closely to understand their intentions. Gloved hands reached into their jackets but Clint had his gun raised and clicked before they ever got to their weapons.

"I'll protect you," he said when she had both yelped and gasped. "There is a plane waiting for me. With my partner. We can get you away from here, away from these people! You can be free!" He ignored the quiet voice at the back of his mind asking him if she even knew what that meant.

"You are American," came the hesitant reply while his head was still dealing with the other, louder voice at the back of his skull telling him to not give her choices, he would never leave her behind, couldn't he just fucking realize she was special.

"Yes, American. My name is Clint Barton, and I can give you a new life." This time, there was no reply. Instead, the girl's head whipped around as another man came racing around the corner, and one shot later, dropped to the ground. Clint blinked. "Come with me. Let me help you." He was basically begging, but he just couldn't shake the feeling that he was meant to bring her along. Something about this girl was special, she was special, and she was meant for something great.The girl grabbed his hand again and he smiled carefully before they took off.

\--

Natasha didn’t merely make a double take upon spotting Clint whirling around the corner with a girl on his hand and firing over his shoulder at another pursuer, but she even jumped, raising her own gun and firing at someone up on the roof of a nearby hotel.

"Clint, why is Interpol shooting at us?" were her first words as he came to a stand next to her at the side of the big courtyard. In the distance, he could already hear the sounds of a chopper.

"I knew their jackets looked familiar, and I have no idea. It wasn't us who busted this whole thing. Did you reach Coulson?" he asked her, pulling the girl between them to shield her – he knew Natasha wore keflar under her dress and he had put on his own vest under his shirt in the hotel before going out. They couldn’t take risks anymore.

"He is furious and promised to make heads roll at Interpol for messing with our mission. Who is the girl?" 

Clint loved his partner; despite her obvious anger over the fucked up mission, and the clear confusion over why a friendly agency was suddenly shooting at them, she managed a small reassuring smile towards the smaller girl.

"We will have time for questions once we are out of here... and you can ask her yourself, she can speak English," Clint breathed back at her as two men on bikes came crashing into the yard.

Bullets were fired, but it wasn't Natasha or him who took out the first guy, and Clint caught his partner's eye over the girl's head for a moment after she had shot. Natasha had that all-knowing grin on her face that told him that she had already figured out what he could not yet see. A moment later, the chopper descended from over their heads and took out the remaining guys on the rooftops of the surrounding buildings and then they were running towards their extraction, spotting Coulson's face in the open door within a nanosecond.

With Coulson’s help, Clint heaved the girl into the chopper while Natasha scrambled into the co-pilot seat, and then Coulson slammed the door shot and they were off. Gently pushing the girl down into a seat and sitting down himself, he strapped both of them in and then took the headset from Coulson.

"Why is Interpol shooting at us?" he asked in a biting tone.

"Wish I knew. I sent word to Fury; we'll see what he has when we get back. Is Aljenka dead?" 

Clint nodded upon Coulson's question, and then stared at the girl next to him. Her wide eyes looked up at him, the gun dropping from her hands and to the ground – Coulson quickly reached for it.

"Ivan is dead; no final word on Aljoscha and Michail. They were both down, but I had to get out before I could confirm," Clint reported while the face of the teenage girl paled more and more. "Hey, girl, you alright?"

"You killed my father?" It spluttered from her lips and Clint and Coulson froze. In the front, Natasha whirled around to stare at them.

"...Your father?" Coulson choked out while Clint could only stare down at green eyes, at her rapidly rising and falling chest, and at the way she immediately clutched her own arms around herself.

"Ivan Aljenka? You killed him? You killed my father?" Her voice only grew more frantic and Clint snapped out of his stupor to reach for her hands.

"Yes, woah...girl, come on, are you alright? Hey, look at me!" he demanded, but it was too late. 

Her ashen face smiled very faintly. "Thank you." She was barely able to whisper these two words, and then she passed out.

\--

Natasha watched her closely when the younger redheaded girl slowly came around again on the pulled out seat on the small, private Shield jet, her ears for once not listening to Coulson and Clint quietly talking at the front. The chopper had brought them to the airfield, and Clint had carried the frail and unconscious girl to the back of the jet. His face had turned into a heavy worried frown, and that had been the last thing Natasha had needed to cross off her mental list of clues before knowing that her partner would not let this girl go again.

Clint Barton, picking up strays since forever.

While green eyes moved behind still closed lids and fingers twitched under the jacket Clint had gently laid over her, Natasha tried to swallow the urge to turn the plane around again to make sure that Michail and Aljoscha would find a sure death as well, to make sure that every last living member of the family who had treated this innocent girl like a caged animal would choke under the Widow's hands.

Skin and bones, red hair lifeless and dull, her eyes frightened and hesitant when she was awake, she was just a ghost.

Natasha’s own face was at peace. She had learned too young how easy it could be to keep emotions hidden, but her insides were burning with a storm. She had sworn to herself to avenge what had been done to her when she was nothing but a child, she had promised herself to bring death to the people who thought girls could be used, could be bullied and pushed to the side like a toy. 

Green eyes flew open with a loud gasp falling from her dry lips, and Natasha leaned back where she had been balancing her weight with her elbows on her knees. Not a second later, the girl’s thin body bolted upright, just as Natasha had expected. Completely confused and terrified upon waking up in an unknown place, the teenage girl hurried out of the seat and then backed away from the strange woman.

She backed away until her back collided with the plane’s wall, and there she slid to the ground with arms curled around her chest and head, knees drawn close, breaths coming out in shallow little gasps.

"Clint," Natasha called out carefully while slowly sliding down from her seat onto her knees so she wouldn't be towering over the girl anymore. Footsteps showed her that her partner had heard her. "Easy there, darling. Nothing..." 

And that was when the kid started pleading in Russian, broken voice catching on every word. "Don't hurt me," she wheezed through her lips – Natasha could practically hear the girl's lungs wheezing for air. "Please don't hurt me, please bring me back. Bring me back before he finds me not home, you have to take me back." She was shaking with pure terror. Natasha dug her fingernails into the palm of her hands as the wish to shoot someone or even choke someone welled up in her. What had they done to this girl?

Clint fell to his knees next to her and tried to distract her from the fury bleeding into her veins, "Woah. Easy." Raising two careful hands, he slowly inched a little closer to the terribly shaking girl. "No one is going to hurt you." His Russian was a little clumsy from lack of use, but Natasha still admired him for his calm.

Clint was a billion times better with kids... with people in general, in fact, than she was.

"You take me back." The girl's hands were gripping so hard onto her upper arms that Natasha feared she would draw blood or bruise herself even more.

"You are safe," Clint soothed, inching close enough to place a hand upon her knee. The girl flinched so hard that Natasha bit her lip to keep still, but Clint wasn't deterred. He squeezed gently and waited until her frantic eyes settled on his face again. 

"Anastasija Aljenka," Natasha’s partner spoke and the girl froze, shut down shut down, and stared at him, "You are fifteen, and Ivan's youngest child; his only daughter. All records of you have been destroyed when you were two and the world was made to believe that you were dead, but in truth, he kept you in that house all this time." 

Natasha closed her eyes for a moment, fighting against the ice cold feeling running through her veins.

No childhood. 

It kept echoing through her mind – the girl had no childhood, she had been a prisoner in her own home. Her own father's prisoner.

"My name is Clint Barton." The girl listened with rapt attention now, even if her breath was still going too quick and her knuckles were white with tension. "I'm a Shield agent and I'm the one who put a bullet through your father's head about five hours ago."

That brought on another meltdown. The girl skipped freaking out and went straight to complete breakdown, and honestly, Natasha couldn't even blame her – it just had to be too much, and they didn't even know everything yet.

Clint jumped forward when the teenager erupted into tears and hyperventilated right through her sobs, weakly protesting before giving up entirely as he wrapped her into his arms. For a fleeting second, Natasha wondered if someone had ever hugged the girl. But then she got to her feet and almost fled to the front of the plane, knowing very well that with her luck, she would only manage to mess things up.

\--

Phil patted the seat right next to him and then shifted the computer so she could see as well. It was the Aljenka file again, scrolled down to the fourth page, containing information on the family’s background.

"Anastasija Kristina Viktoria Aljenka, born 1985, declared dead by accidental asphyxiation a few days after her second birthday... a week after Aljenka's wife disappeared." Phil spoke out what Natasha could read herself. "Nothing else. Absolutely nothing else in our database."

"Sounds strange," Natasha put into words what she could read on her former guardian's face, gentle eyes showing frustration over a puzzle.

"Sounds impossible." Phil looked over his shoulder and down the small corridor to see Clint coaxing the girl into a seat again. There was a blanket wrapped around her loosely, and Clint was holding her hand.

"What's going to happen to her now?" Natasha asked quietly and scrolled along the little bits of information, frowning when she reached the heavily loaded folders containing information on the men in her family. 

Phil chuckled, nudging her until she followed his line of sight. “Tasha, you know the answer to that," he told her, and they watched how Clint pushed an arm around the girl's shoulder and quietly talked to her. "Clint's heart is something very special, and he won't let this girl go again; we both know that."

"And so the family grew," Natasha concluded with a small soft smile. Phil caught her eyes, smiled too, and then took the laptop back upon his lap. She watched how his fingers flew over the keyboard, sending out a notice to Hill to have some papers brought into his office.

\--

"I know this is a lot." Clint tried to show that he understood. The frail body next to his was still shivering, the cold coming from inside her. He knew the feeling all too well, when everything just became too much to take in, when kindness still felt like pain because it was too unknown, too strange, too unfamiliar. "But I promise you, you won't have to go through it alone. There'll be people around who will help you. I'll be there."

"They find me...they will find me," a scared voice whispered and Clint turned around until he could pull her chin up with a gentle hand. Green eyes, still filled with tears, looked up at him.

"They won't. Your father is dead and your brothers couldn't have survived that explosion. They both went down in the chaos when Interpol crashed the party," he explained quietly to her and the girl nodded. The hand that wasn't holding onto his twisted the fabric of her shirt around her fingers, again and again.

"There are...others. My father had many friends." Halfway through her words, she had switched back to Russian and Clint squeezed her hand.

"We know, but we can protect you from all of them. We can... do things to assure that no one is ever going to find you again." Clint tried to formulate it carefully, not wanting to scare her even more, but green eyes looked at him curiously.

He was painfully reminded of Natasha, of that young traumatized girl who had grasped at every chance to change who she was, who had taken the new identity Shield had given her with no regrets and no look back.

"We can give you a new name, a new life... a new identity. If you want, Anastasija died in that house, in that explosion. No one has to know you got out but these three people that you can see right now. Anastasija Aljenka can be a girl who died in her cage in Munich. This—" he placed a finger on her chest, exactly where her heart was beating strongly against her ribs— "is no longer a prisoner. This is a girl who was given a chance at life."

He left her with her own thoughts for a moment and went to the front of his plane to get his duffle bag, rummaging around until he found the spare clothes he had packed in case they needed to make a civilian exit. They were certainly way too big for her, but as frail and skinny as the girl was, she was already taller than Natasha, so his would have to do.

"There are so many names." Her voice shook him out of his own mind again and he smiled, turning his head to face her.

"In my experience," he started and dropped the picked clothes to a seat next to her, "One doesn't have to think too long about it, don't have to scroll through books for hours until you found that beautiful one of a kind name you might like for about three months before it feels strange. Pick something close to your heart." He pushed the bag back under a seat before sitting down next to her again.

"You know... Natasha, that wasn't always her name,” he began and saw how green eyes flickered to the other redhead in the front, who was talking quietly with Phil. "I saved her as well a couple of years ago. She was a prisoner, too, and although her situation was a little different from you, she was longing for freedom as well. I took her from the people who were hurting her, using her for their games, and Shield gave her a new life. She told me later that she picked Natasha because it was a name she carried close to her heart. No one had ever really called her that, but she still knew deep inside herself that Natasha was who she wanted to be. And I..."

"Clint?" she stopped him with a quiet voice and Clint immediately clamped his mouth shut, dropping blue eyes down until he found her looking up at him. Green eyes that suddenly were shining with a determination that he hadn't thought possible at the moment, and it was then that he knew she would be alright. She was a fighter, a survivor.

"My name is Sarah."

\--

"Did you call for an escort?" Clint asked, frowning as he looked out the window while their plane rolled on the airfield outside New York City. Phil sent a short apologetic look over to Sarah and Natasha, who were quietly talking in Russian in the back of the plane The girl looked scared again, drowning in the hoodie, sweatpants and sneakers that Clint had dug out of his duffel bag for her hours earlier.

"No, of course I didn't call for an escort. I'm very much able to find my own way to the base from here," Phil answered and none-too-gently poked Clint in the side to scoot over so he could take a look himself.

"Well, I see Commander Johnson and at least five of his agents out there," Clint explained and exchanged a long look with his SO. "What exactly did you call in to alarm Strike?"

"Nothing!" Phil protested and met Clint's deadpanned expression with a scowl of his own. "I told Maria the basics, that you were overrun by government agents after eliminating Aljenka and that you rescued a hostage before running."

The plane came to a stop not far from the line-up of black armored SUVs, but as the engines calmed down, none of them made a move to get up. Clint stared down at Commander Johnson's blank expression and the overly aware faces of the other Strike agents.

"Okay, something is fishy here," Clint mumbled, feeling Natasha's gaze boring into the back of his skull. "Nat, you stay here with Sarah a little longer."

Natasha nodded and Clint and Phil moved like one towards the door, pushing it open and waiting until the stairs were no longer moving before stepping down upon the airfield.

"Commander," Clint greeted the middle aged man with the constantly narrowed eyes focused on him, "I didn't know there was business in New York."

"You're in New York, so right now, there is business in New York for me."

Clint gaped at Johnson, especially when the man reached up to pat his shoulder once, “There is an arrest warrant out for you.”

"What?"

"That's why Interpol raided the place; someone must have spotted Hawkeye in Munich," Johnson explained and turned to Phil. "We're on it. I'm leaving Jack behind to drive you back to base. You're benched until this gets cleared up."

"What in the fucking hell am I accused of?" Clint demanded to know in a biting tone that he hoped didn't carry over into the plane. It wasn't Johnson who answered; instead someone else spoke up, stepping out from behind one of the SUVs.

"Something you didn't do; you have an alibi," Agent Bobbi Morse told him, blond hair pulled up in a high ponytail as she came to stand next to Johnson. "Someone killed an Ukrainian politician with an arrow. Sloppy, and messy."

"Brother dearest," Clint snarled, but Phil elbowed him and Clint smoothed out his face and unclenched his fists when he heard steps behind him. It was Natasha, leading Sarah out of the plane.

"I'll take care of it – it was about time that Barney got another reminder to keep his face off the face of the earth, anyways. You take care of your strays, Barton." Bobbi smiled at the approaching Natasha and terrified girl.

Johnson waved his guys off with little to no goodbyes; they weren't exactly each other's biggest fans and Clint knew that the Commander was only doing this because Nick must have personally ordered him to. Bobbi was more the type to volunteer for this kind of mission and she smiled at him shortly before falling in line with the Strike team. Only one man stayed behind and Clint dragged a hand down his face before looking over at Jack Rollins.

"Did the Big Guy let you off his leash?" Clint asked. Jack scowled, reached behind himself without a word and opened the sliding door of the SUV.

"I have my orders, Barton, directly from Fury... and he did include permission to sedate you if you are too annoying." Jack spoke quietly as always and Clint glared at him while Phil chuckled. Even Natasha gave half a smile. Sarah just kept her head down, face almost hidden in the collar of the hoodie.

"Let's just get to base."

\--

"Can you stay with her? While I go and find Laura?" Clint asked a little later as Natasha and him watched how the doctors and nurses rushed around the terrified girl like excited chickens. They meant well. They took care of the obvious injuries and bruises that needed tending to, in the corner where Coulson had left Jack to guard her.

It was the more objective choice, Natasha supposed, considering that Clint flinched every time Sarah so much as tensed her lips in reaction to being touched.

"Is that your excuse for not throwing a punch? I can see your hands twitching, Clint," Natasha teased, but Clint snorted and turned towards the door.

"As if I was going to dirty my hands on them; Rumlow is just outside around the corner, let the excited ones do it," he offered and ignored the glare on Natasha's face as he looked over his shoulder at the Strike Agent Coulson had left them. "You have a stun baton, make use of it if the occasion arises."

"Yes, Sir," the tall man replied with an amused smile on his face upon catching sight of the eye roll Natasha gave in response to Clint's words.

"Just go." She pushed him against the door and Clint left with one last look towards Sarah, who was caught in a staring match with a nurse intending to check her teeth. When the door closed behind Clint, Natasha walked over to Jack, smiling innocently as her fingers tapped up his chest to the breast pocket at the right side of his uniform jacket.

Coulson had, as always, stripped both Clint and her of all weapons as a direct result of a mission having gone fucked. Apparently, a couple of incidents with too high tempers and too loose fingers had brought him to the end of his patience – Natasha could almost sympathize.

Almost.

"You won't mind, now, would you, cupcake?" She grinned up at Jack, who simply deadpanned back at her, but still reached one hand to his hip and drew out a simple polished combat knife. He handed it to her and went right back to his stoic observation of the room. “Good boy," she thanked him, before she twirled away and dropped herself down on a chair not far from Sarah, bringing the knife to her fingernails.

For fifteen minutes, the nurses turned more and more nervous and uncomfortable under the casual way she used the knife to clean her nails of the blood, until a knock sounded on the door.

"He building an army of redheads or something?" Natasha looked up upon hearing the question and found Nick leaning against the open door, looking at the twitching girl with one eyebrow raised – the question was meant for her, though. The last nurse and doctor left the room to run the tests Natasha knew would yield results that Coulson would hide away quickly again the second they knew the girl was as healthy as expected.

"Maybe," she answered and smirked, "Clint has good taste." 

Nick snorted in response and then crooked a finger at her before pointing outside. "Need to talk to you. Five minutes," he said and she nodded, getting back to her feet and sensing that Sarah's eyes were on her immediately.

\--

"Listen, I'll be right back. I just need to talk to my boss for a bit, but I'll be right outside the door and nothing will happen. I promise." Natasha talked calmly and quietly and Sarah nodded, curling up some more on the simple bed. She was watching the older redhead follow the Director out of the room, but not without sending a defining look over to the tall agent in the corner of the room.

She kept herself from glancing at the silent man when the door closed. Only the milky glass door gave her a view of Natasha, the only familiar thing in this strange new world since Clint had left over an hour ago. She was scared, could barely breathe correctly – everything felt so big and wide and cold. There was so many people, so much noise and everything was always in motion, everyone kept complaining, and she had only been in this place for two hours.

Was this what America was like? Was this what the world was like? Freedom?

She shivered against the cold. She wasn't even sure anymore if she was really feeling it or just imagining it – nothing would surprise her anymore. All she wanted was to sleep, but she couldn't risk that this was all just a dream, not real, and soon enough she would wake up for good and be right back in her room. Be right back with Ivan. Right back with Mischa and Joscha.

She couldn't – she couldn't – even if this all was just a dream, she never wanted to wake up again, not after feeling the wind on her face and the sun on her skin. She only noticed the tears on her face when it got even colder. She hated crying again; she really thought she was done with it.

A sound – boots moving quietly over the ground – had her tense up. She went rigid from head to toe in under one second, but instead of the usual pain that usually followed that sound, it was a jacket carefully draped over her shoulders and back.

"I'm sorry," a gentle voice spoke in clumsy Russian. She looked up and found the tall agent standing right in front of her, smiling down at her with soft green eyes. His gun holster was now bared on his black shirt now that his jacket was warming her.

"I did not want to scare you, but you looked cold... and I'm too scared of Romanov to stand by and watch you shiver." Sarah tried to remember if she had heard a name as the agent talked. His voice was so quiet and soft, not loud and angry, and in complete surprise, she watched as he crouched down to make himself less threatening. "My name is Jack, and I'm a colleague of Clint and Romanov."

"Thank you," she whispered and despite all voices in her head screaming a clear warning, she still let her fingers stroke over the rough but warm material of the black jacket, feeling how thick and strong it was.

"It is meant to protect," the agent called Jack told her, still talking in Russian and sounding more sure then, "against bullets and knives. They give us safety when we work." He talked some more, quiet and steady, some nonsense about the jacket and something about his latest mission that she could barely believe.

When Clint returned to the medical room, she was shocked to find herself sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing the oversized combat jacket and listening to the smiling agent talking about his team leader's accident on the plane ride back to base.

"Hey," Clint said and gave her a bright smile upon seeing her so relaxed. The tall agent straightened up again. "Thanks, Jack, for staying with her. I think you can go home now. Brock is waiting outside – looks like he needs a drink."

She hurried to get the zipper open to shrug off the jacket, but Jack held up a hand. "No, keep it. It did me a good service, but it's time that I get a new one... That one’s too tight," he grinned shortly. "It can protect you now." Then, he left with one last sloppy salute towards Clint.

"Made a friend?" Clint asked once the door was closed again. she ducked her head, fingers playing with the sleeves of the jacket; it was too long and it covered her wrists, and she liked that.

She felt able to hide in it, and it was warm, comfortable.

\--

"Sarah, this is Laura, my wife." Clint introduced her to the woman at his side with the long brown hair. Natasha smiled softly from where she had hopped upon a counter at the right wall.

"As surprising as this is, I am very happy to meet you, Sarah," the woman called Laura said and extended a hand that Sarah carefully reached for and then weakly shook. She was still sitting on the bed, the combat jacket dwarfing her exhausted frame, and she was sure she didn't imagine the honest concern in hazel eyes.

Still, she didn't say anything, just let go of the warm soft hand again and dropped hers back into her lap, eyes going back to hesitantly watch Clint's reaction. She was so tired, so exhausted, physically and emotionally. Even thinking hurt by then. 

Clint smiled. He must have seen, somehow, the silent plea for help in her green eyes, because he took two steps closer to her and said, "Coulson is rushing through the first stack of paperwork right now. When he is done, we're going to take you home." It was a promise, and Sarah felt the burning itch, the choking tightness in her throat, return.

"Home?" she whispered and Clint's hand snapped up to wipe the tears away as they ran over her cheeks again. She couldn't even stop it, she had been so good at hiding it, but everything felt too much now.

"Laura and I have an apartment in Brooklyn, and if you want, you can stay there with us. We'll take care of you, protect you. That okay with you?" The question was easy to understand, but finding an answer seemed impossible.

Hours. It had only been hours since this man had freed her from her father's prison and now he was offering a place in his home to her, was offering protection to her. Also, he expected nothing in return. He wanted to help her out of kindness.

She tried to bite back the sob but her body ignored her efforts. She just didn't understand, she couldn't follow anymore. Everything was changing too fast. Clint was pushed to the side and someone else took his place, and gentle hands pulled her into a warm embrace, pushing her face into sweet smelling brown hair.

"It's okay, sweetheart. You must be so tired and exhausted. We're going to protect you and bring you home." Laura's voice in her ear was like the first drink of water after days of neglect, like the first soft touch after weeks of punches and scratches.

Sarah let herself fall into it, because she could, because for the first time in ten years, she felt able to trust someone again.

\--

Clint's and Laura's apartment was a remodeled loft in Brooklyn. It was on the sixth story, right at the top of the building, in a nice and quiet neighbourhood – or at least, that was what they told her. Sarah was inclined to believe them though; they gave her no reason not to, even if they could have told her anything at this point. It wasn't as if she had any means to know better.

She hadn't been completely cut off from the world in the last fifteen years. There had been times before her father had gone so bitter and paranoid where there had been maids allowed to interact with her. They were young women from all over the world it seemed; some of them taught her English, others used her to learn Russian and talked about their homes.

She had had books to read, to learn from, to dream in, and music to get carried away, to forget everything just for an hour. She knew what her father's plans had been. He had wanted to wait until she came of age, and then sell her to his powerful friends in Russia to make sure the name Aljenka would never be forgotten. He had also made sure she wouldn't walk into that path dumb as bread. 

America, though, America was mostly a blank slate. Sarah blamed her father's deep rooted resentment against the country and its people for it, as well as his paranoia over her even thinking about freedom. Mischa had not shared in his father’s beliefs right from the start, and had even once cared about her, smuggled movies in for her to watch, sometimes even with him.

But that had been years ago, before Ivan had gotten into his head as well, before she had been able to watch her brother pull away from her for good. That had been the moment she had given up hope. His betrayal had hurt her more than Ivan and his coldness ever could, and had ripped her apart more than Joscha's hands ever could.

And now, she could restart. Have a new beginning. It was too early to really believe in it, but it was also too good, too warm and too wonderful to not want to believe in it.

The apartment was full of light. There were grand windows in the living area. Laura made the tour with great joy in her eyes, one hand tightly clasped around Sarah's while Clint vanished into the shower. The first floor of the apartment was basically one room; there was a huge kitchen and an old looking dining room table with at least eight chairs around it. A pair of armchairs stood in a corner with bookshelves as high as the ceilings, and it took a long time until Sarah could draw her eyes away from all those book titles.

The biggest area on the floor was occupied by three big couches and a truly comfortable-looking armchair all set with perfect view of the flat screen on the wall, right next to a glass door leading out to a spacious balcony. The view from the windows drew her in, fascinated her. After all those years of always seeing the same rooftops, the same church, the change baffled her.

Nothing screamed life to her like this.

On the left side of the floor, there was a spiral staircase leading up to the second story of the apartment, and next to it was a door that Laura told her led to a small bathroom. Upstairs, Clint took over for his wife, so she would be able to take a shower. He showed her where the master bedroom was, in case something happened at night, repeating at least three times that she was welcome to knock at all times for even the smallest thing.

Next to it was the master bathroom and an office that Clint told her was in fact more Laura's crafting room than anything else. Further down the corridor, three doors led respectively to Natasha's room when she was in town, a slightly smaller bathroom and...

"Your room," Clint said with a smile that nearly broke his face in half, holding the door open for her. Sarah stepped into the room with her heart in her throat. It was simple: a bed, a closet, a desk, a spinning chair, a door to the bathroom. But it promised a new start; nothing would remind her of that prison cell, here, especially not the breathtaking view down the street and over to the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance.

"We'll fill it with life in the next days, whatever you want – books, pillows, pictures. There is a little store around the corner and Laura is surely already planning to take you clothes shopping. We'll make this yours, if you want it," Clint spoke and leaned against the doorframe while Sarah walked over to the bed and let her fingers carefully stroke the soft blue blanket.

"Thank you," she said after a moment of silence and Clint smiled warmly.

"If I were you, I would take a shower before Natasha comes back from debriefing; she likes to hog the warm water. Her showers last forever after missions. I'll have Laura put out some clothes for you. We'll be downstairs if you need anything." 

Sarah nodded upon his words and then sat down on the edge of the bed once he had left and closed the door behind himself.

And, in the privacy of her new room, as she looked out at the slowly darkening sky, Sarah gave herself a first small smile. "Goodbye Anastasija." Her whisper disappeared in the silence of the room and she took a deep breath before pulling the hoodie off and getting back to her feet.

\--

Natasha did in fact vanish into the bathroom for at least an hour once she returned from Shield. By the time she was done, Laura had set Sarah up with a cup of warm tea and a fuzzy red blanket on the middle couch... and Clint was going on about pizza.

"Good grief, give the poor girl a break," Phil Coulson called out after Laura had let him into the apartment. He then handed her a few bags spilling over with groceries that he must have gotten on his way over from base.

"Pizza is important," Clint protested and earned himself a pinched elbow as Natasha quietly advanced on him from behind, hair still wet and wearing a faded red hoodie and jeans.

"Don't listen to him," Natasha said as she turned to Sarah, "he is an idiot and has zero taste when it comes to food." She flopped on the couch to Sarah’s left.

"If it was up to him, he would live on pizza and coffee alone," Laura called from the kitchen. Clint scowled and turned to the other man in the room who had walked over to help Laura with putting away the groceries.

"Don't even try. You bring them into your life, you deal with them, Clint. And they're right anyways," Phil argued and, judging by the way Clint huffed and dramatically let himself fall down on the remaining unoccupied couch, Sarah guessed that this was a regular occurrence.

"We're still ordering pizza," he argued and Natasha threw a pillow in his face. He retaliated by hitting back with two until Laura snapped at them to stop.

They did order pizza then, and Sarah mostly nodded to what was being said, hungry by then but too exhausted to bring up some mental strength to make a choice. The food arrived after half an hour, but instead of moving over to the dining room table, Laura and Phil simply brought over drinks and settled in the couch area as well. Laura sat with Clint and Phil, with a loud sigh, settled in in the armchair.

After a short debate that Sarah barely understood a word of, Laura and Phil argued Clint and Natasha down on movie choices and they settled on two classics that Phil called "a first step in American movie culture". Sarah neither knew 'Singing in the Rain' nor 'Aristocats', but the happy mood in the room and on screen made it easy to settle back. The pizza was good, even if unfamiliar. and the tea settled warmth in her bones.

More than the movies, though, she found peace in observing the four adults around her. Phil looked like a whole different person once the jacket was off, especially after Clint had taken his phone from him and kicked it under a couch to stop him from looking at it every ten minutes. There was fondness in the way Phil looked at the other three agents, especially when he looked at Clint, or rolled his eyes over something he said.

Sarah was reminded of a movie Mischa had shown her years ago, something christmas-sy, a family coming together for the holidays and leaving all work outside their doors. She had still been young and naive enough to ask her oldest brother if that was what a family was truly about: love and affection, people caring for each other. Mischa had not answered her, had not said a word for the rest of the evening; she had never stopped wondering what his thoughts had been.

This here, this felt like that movie, like the books she had clung to. Warmth. Safety. Clint and Laura had laid down side by side once they had been done with their pizzas, and Clint had snuggled himself almost all around his wife. He had one arm around her waist, his chin resting on top of her head, and both of them looked so comfortable and at ease.

They were like the couples in her books, like the parents in the movie.

Natasha had curled up like a cat on her end of the couch, two blankets wrapped around her while she munched on black cookies and watched the movies. Now and then, Clint's free hand stroked through her hair and Natasha's green eyes would fall shut. It broke away the last of Sarah's guards for the night.

On the TV screen, cats were singing as she felt her eyes drop close. Her head lolled back into the soft pillow, the comfortable silence and atmosphere of the room letting sleep claim her without fear of being defenceless for once.

In time, she would learn to give that feeling a name – love and being loved – but for now, Sarah slept.

\--

"She's out," Laura observed quietly when she had stretched to get another handfull of chips. "God, she is so young." She sighed, watching the girl's chest rise with steady breaths, her face still not looking peaceful in sleep. Exhaustion ran deep in every line of Sarah’s body; the terror was still present in the deep shadows under her eyes.

"Not younger than I was," Natasha pointed out, her eyes set upon the girl as well. Laura didn't like the look in those green eyes; something had to be done about that as well. This whole mission had probably brought up a lot of bad memories again.

She could feel Clint's eyes on the side of her face as he pushed himself out from behind her, a silent plea to take care of Natasha while he looked out for their newest addition. As Laura nodded as softly as she could, Phil stretched in the armchair.

"I'm gonna go home. I'll try and have the papers done by lunch tomorrow," he announced and stood. Phil clapped Clint on the back as he passed beside him and then leaned down to kiss Natasha and Laura on the forehead. "Get some sleep, guys."

They said their goodbyes to him and Laura shifted closer to Natasha when Clint turned towards the sleeping girl, carefully picking her up before carrying her over into the guest room. Sarah didn't stir once.

Back in the living room, Laura pulled Natasha close and got comfortable on the smaller couch. "So, stray number two. I can see a pattern developing." 

Natasha chuckled almost soundlessly. "It'll be different with her. She is not me; her life is still a blank page. She can be whoever she wants to be," Natasha said and Laura tightened her arms around her waist.

"We would have given that to you as well if you had wanted it," she reminded the younger woman quietly and Natasha looked at her, smiling softly. "And you know that. But, you're right to say that she isn't you. The way he looks at her, it's different. The way he is itching to protect her from all evil is different."

"Clint didn't just bring home another stray," Natasha continued her thought flawlessly. "He brought home a daughter."

\--

She woke up with a gasp and a confused mind. The pillows and blankets were so soft and warm, the bed was so comfortable, and she was curled up on her side. Why was she able to curl up on her side? The chain and the cuffs – they had always made it so difficult...

Oh.

Right.

There were no more chains, no more worn clothes and freezing in the cold, no more holding breaths over footsteps in the corridor at night... No more flinching and hiding away from angry fists.

She was free.

Someone moved in the corner of the dimly lit room she didn't remember falling asleep in, and Sarah winced before she caught sight of Clint's gently smiling face. He was sitting cross-legged in the armchair by the window and stretched his arms over his head until his shoulders popped.

"You fell asleep on the couch and I carried you here; thought it might be more comfortable," Clint said quietly while she still shifted around on the bed to snuggle deeper under the blankets.

"Thank you," Sarah answered and then blinked at the bear resting on the pillow next to her head. The light was probably messing with her perception, but it looked like it was wearing some dark blue coat and a black mask on top of tiny brown shoes. Clint must have seen her weird look, because he chuckled, leaning forward a little.

"His name is Bucky Bear, I'll tell you some other time where that originates from. He's Laura's, but she thought you might like to have something to hold onto at night," he explained in a voice that somehow spoke of more than just a hunch.

"Why you not asleep?" she asked quietly, ears straining to hear any other sound in the house. There was only silence. 

Clint smiled brighter, leaning back again and looking immensely comfortable despite sitting in an armchair. “It's your first night in a strange place, with strange people. I wasn't going to let you be alone." His words sent a warm rush of feelings down her chest and Sarah ducked her head into the soft fur of the bear's head for a moment. The concept of someone being concerned for her – it was so foreign.

"What is going... to happen with me now?" She asked the question that had been going through her head since touching down in New York hours ago.

"You're gonna live... Find out what you want, find out who you want to be. See where your path leads to. Everything is possible, Sarah; you're free," Clint spoke with the confidence she so badly wanted to have, to no longer be afraid, to start believing this wasn't a dream.

"It's not," Clint pointed out and Sarah snapped up her head again, face flushed upon realizing that she had spoken out loud. Clint, though, just smiled and stood up, walked over to the window and pushed aside the curtains. "Come here." 

Sarah slowly unwrapped herself from the blankets. The carpet was soft beneath her bare feet and she stopped for a second next to the bed, just to enjoy the feeling. Clint watched her out of the corner of his eyes with a soft smile.

"Alright," he spoke again once she was standing right next to him, "so it's not the best view, but it's too cold to go up on the roof tonight. I'll take you another time, but look." He pointed up towards the night sky. "We're far enough from Manhattan that you can see the stars on a good night... and there," he pointed to the building across the street, "Miss Roberts' daughters are in their second year of college; they're basically never asleep during the week. Mister Geyer sets his alarm clock for 5 am still even though he's been retired for two years already, but he'll get up and take care of Susan Drew's cats, just so she can sleep after getting home from her night shift at the hospital."

He told her more about the people in the neighbourhood, pointed out windows, and dished out stories and some gossip.

"This is Brooklyn. Brooklyn means home, a community. If you're part of it once, you're part of it forever. People look out for each other here; that's what is making this not a dream. You have a shot at a free life now, Sarah," Clint explained, turning his head to look down at her, gently pulling an arm around her shoulders to draw her closer when he saw her shiver.

"There will be many choices to make over things that may overwhelm you, that you may not understand, but I promise you, you will never be alone in any of it. Someone will always be there.”

He paused.

“I will always be there." 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't ask me when updates will happen. This is a story that is very dear to me heart and my beta and I will finish chapters when we do. This story is planned out, I know where it will lead and I only need to write it down, but that takes time.


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